


Let Me Photograph You In This Light In Case It Is The Last Time

by HellNHighHeels



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, In which 12 stalks River through time and space and draws her like a French girl, River/Doctor Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not as good at paintings and scribbles as his last face. These hands are made for strumming, for vibrations under calloused fingertips and the soothing hum of string. But he wants to remember this moment, to hold it tight forever, and the last of their time is being slowly swallowed by dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Photograph You In This Light In Case It Is The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for the River/Doctor ficathon: "Twelve/ River - smutty portrait/photo/video. - The Doctor wants something to remember River by. So draws, films, captures River secretly."
> 
> I'm not sure if this is exactly what the prompter had in mind, but alas, there is smut and drawing and angsty 12. So I hope you enjoy it anyway. :) Title from When We Were Young by Adele

**_Dawn_ **

He's done this more times than he can count, watched her sleep under an enduring blanket of stars, marking the hours as they slip away by the constellations that shift across the heavens. Their current position tells him that it's almost morning, that soon the sun will rise and steal the night entirely. But distant starlight isn't the only thing being stolen from him today. When the day claims this planet for its own, he'll have to bid farewell to more than just a star speckled sky. 

His eyes fall to River, and if this is the last time he is to see her, he thinks it is a worthy sight to behold. She's lying on her back, their cream colored sheets resting just below her waist. Breasts on display and the curve of her hips just barely hidden from view, she looks like a fallen angel in a Renaissance painting. Her right arm is draped across her bare stomach, the other laying palm up by her pillow, fingers curling inward ever so slightly. He likes to imagine that she's holding something in her dreams. His hand, perhaps, clutching him tightly as they make their grand escape from some perilous adventure. Or better yet, their fingers lazily entwined as he sips at his tea and she reads the Sunday paper. 

He always liked that, the stillness they fell into so easily. Their grip didn't squeeze quite as hard, not here where time ran linearly and the other was not constantly slipping away. Kisses became less hungry, less desperate, when there was no fear of every touch being their last. Even now, he finds the will to not wake her, to let her sleep. The longer her eyes are closed, the longer he can ignore the hint of violet that's just starting to bleed into the curtain of black sky. It won't be long before the colors give way to pale blues and pinks, before the reddish yellow light of day breathes life into this planet of perpetual night. 

But for now, he memorizes the shadows that blanket her skin as the moon dances across the starlit sky. She's hauntingly beautiful, bathed in the pale silver light they've grown so accustomed to. Not that he minded the darkness, her smile had been sunshine enough for him these past few decades, her green eyes and throaty laughter more than enough to brighten up even the blackest of rooms. 

He listens to the sound of her breathing, entranced by her soft sighs and sleepy moans. It's effortless, the way she harmonizes with the world around them. Even the Towers seem to cater to her every subtle exhale. It's as if they sing for her alone. Or maybe the years spent here have made them merge into one perfect tune, his old man ears no longer clever enough to distinguish between the two rhythms.

He's not sure what he'll do tomorrow, when he finds himself suddenly deprived of their music. Their melody has become background noise over the decades. Like the beat of a heart or the sound of footsteps, it is a steady pulse that one forgets to notice. It became second nature, as familiar as warm sheets and the cadence of breathing. 

He fears the lack of it will be deafening, the absence of her too heavy a burden to bear. 

Like the Towers outside their bedroom window, her presence has become a comfort, the sound of her voice a necessity. The way she smirks over tea cups and kisses his cheek before falling asleep a routine as unchanging as the landscape. 

The Doctor tears his eyes from her to spare a glance toward the familiar monoliths. They're still tall and miraculously untouched by time, but they don't seem as lonely as they once did, not after twenty-four years to uncover all their secrets, to explore every crevice and cave. They don't seem so imposing, not after studying how and why they hum, not after discovering what type of wind makes them sing the loudest and the sweetest. Reading between the lines is effortless now that he can detect a symphony from the tune of a single note. It doesn't hurt him to let them see his love or his longing, not after he's stood by them through tornadoes and hurricanes, admired them through fair winds and gentle breezes. 

He knows every inch of the woman beside him, too. He learned her just as intimately; and as he watches River, bathed in the silver light of the moon, he is overcome with a long forgotten ache. He'd repressed the want of more time that always hung around them like specter. More than two decades together had taught them patience. They planned more than one adventure at a time. They mapped out a future, one day after the next, looking ahead as well as looking behind, all without worry or fear of repercussions. They loved like normal people do, and it was extraordinary. 

But as the first glimmer of sunlight kisses the horizon, he can't deny how stunning the light of daybreak is on her naked skin. River was made for light, for the reds and golds of the early morning sun. Dawn crawls over her body in a welcoming caress. It curls around the ringlets of her hair, infusing its radiance and majestic luster. The Darillium sunshine is greedy to wash over her form, to swallow her in light and steal her away. It loves her almost as much as he does. And though he hates to admit it, the warm glow radiating from her skin makes the sunrise worth seeing. There's never been anything like it in all the universe and there never, ever will be again.

He feels compelled to capture it, to immortalize the fleeting moment in a way that his ancient, cluttered brain will never forget. Before he knows what his limbs are doing, he’s twisted himself around, riffling through the drawers on the bed side table in search for anything in which to record this inimitable moment.

What he finds is a sad looking pencil and a piece of scrap paper that’s almost as wrinkly as him.

He’ll never be able to draw her with this, never capture her perfection with objects so ordinary. The graphite is dull and the eraser is missing. The paper is crinkled beyond repair, as if it’s been wadded up and tuck in the back of this drawer for a century. He’s about to chuck them away, insulted by the very thought of immortalizing her on something so unworthy when another streak of sunlight slips past the curtains, brightening the room.

The Doctor turns back to River, frowning to see even more daylight soaking into her skin. With a silent huff, he snags a book from his drawer and turns to face his wife, flattening the paper as successfully as he can. The book isn’t much of an easel and the crumpled paper isn’t much of a canvas. Then again, he isn’t much of an artist, not this go anyway, so he supposes their crassness is rather fitting. He's not as good at paintings and scribbles as his last face. These hands are made for strumming, for vibrations under calloused fingertips and the soothing hum of string. But he wants to remember this moment, to hold it tight forever, and the last of their time is being slowly swallowed by dawn. 

He hasn't seen her in proper sunlight in years. She sparkles in ways that ought not be real, her skin gold enough for Midas to covet and a smile so bright Icarus dares not get too close. From Lady Godiva to Helen of Troy, she out shines the loveliest of legends, inspiring envy in Aphrodite herself.

The sun seems to agree, hurriedly climbing the sky so it can find new ways to delight in her form and cast shadows over secret places. The underside of her breast draws his eyes, the plump flesh still hidden from the eager kiss of morning. The side of her neck is still shrouded in secret, not yet reachable by the fingers of light streaming into the room. Her chin is tilted towards him, half of it bathed in the dawn of new day and the other protected by the last lingering echo of night. 

That beautiful face is where he begins his work, framing the sharp line of her jaw, the bump in her nose and soft crease of her brow. She is a force of nature and he maps her as such, tracing every crevice and freckle and scar with equal detail and adoration. He sketches her mouth first, scrawling out those soft, full lips and savoring the way unspoken secrets still curl their edges. He charts the catlike shape of her eyes, thick lashes and closed lids doing nothing to dampen their enchanting beauty. He loves when they flutter shut, from exasperation or pleasure, he adores it all the same.

Her hair is by far the most difficult to capture, those unruly strands spiraling every which way. So when he sets his pencil to work, he doesn't try to contain the haphazard swirls and chaotic ringlets that spring into being. He graphs them as they were meant to be seen, riotously spilling across the pillow, framing her face and tickling her cheek. 

He follows the curve of her neck, long and elegant, making sure to shadow in the teeth marks he'd left the night before. He shades the hollow of her throat, where he'd planted a single gentle kiss. He sculpts the hard line of her collar bone, leading him to the arch of her small, rounded shoulders. He does his best to replicate her toned biceps and slender forearms, to capture the grace of his assassin and the strength of his lover.

He's about to dedicate aching attention to those capable, yet delicate fingers he loves so much when his muse first begins to stir. She shifts, arms stretching outward and back arching her chest into the open air in that irresistible _River_   way she always does before she wakes.

He doesn’t allow himself to enjoy the view like he normally would. Instead, he jumps like a naughty child, twisting away to hide his stolen sweets. He takes a small moment to tuck the half-finished drawing away, trying desperately not to let his emotions betray his time hardened features. He doesn't want her to remember him with wet eyes and a wavering smile.

When he turns back, he finds her eyes are open, watching him curiously, a sleepy smile curling her cheeks. Wordlessly, the Doctor settles back into bed, facing her as he rests his head against the pillow. River’s smile broadens, letting out a long, content sigh as she studies the contours of his face, memorizing him like she’s never seen it before or she never will again.

He studies her with the same reverent passion, both laying in quiet content, too at peace to break the silence of morning. From this close, the sunlight reflected in her eyes makes the colors in them dance like autumn, greens giving way to ambers and oranges. The hazel and gold curling around her irises is reminiscent of a wilting flower; and when the Doctor closes the distance between them, he kisses her, lips caressing hers as he drinks in the last of their summer. 

It is slow and lingering, and when their mouths part, his nose still brushes hers as he whispers, "Good morning, sweetie."

 

It’s not until he’s cooked her breakfast and kissed her thoroughly, until he’s sitting alone in the house they shared and staring at their unmade bed that he remembers he never finished the drawing.

 

 ** _Lightning_**  

He keeps the pencil. He sharpened it, of course. But he rather likes the lack of eraser. It makes him more cautious, drawing her with the tender care and careful attention he should have touched and spoken to her with all along. He’s always loved the thrill of having one chance to get it right. There’s something quite humbling about living with mistakes and scratches, scars and stray pencil marks. Just as their tangled lives always had been, he finds the pictures of her are only made more beautiful because of their flaws.

He thinks she’d like that, an old, used up pencil leaving it’s charcoal grey mark all over countless pages of unsuspecting paper. She’d like the idea of his hands mapping her by memory alone. So that’s what he does; he draws what he remembers. Sometimes it's a besotted smile and others it's that look she'd get in her eyes when something particularly mischievous crossed her mind. Sometimes it’s the way the wind played with her hair or the ringlets that coil by the nape of her neck after their inevitable escape from her up-dos. Sometimes it’s sounds he remembers, her laugh, her sighs, the click of her heels on the console floor. Those he plays on his guitar, a perfect ode to the woman who’ll never hear them.

But the drawings he can never get quite right. There’s always something missing, always an elegance his clumsy fingers can’t capture, always a spark that he can’t seem to ignite. All apart from one. The half-completed sketch from Darillium is pinned to the wall like a priceless heirloom. It is the prize of his shrine, the pinnacle to which all other drawings aspire, it’s only flaw that it will forever remain unfinished.

As he stares down at his most recent sketch of her bow tie wrapped palm, the Doctor can't help but frown. It's missing something, the two dimensional medium not enough to capture the softness of her touch and warmth of her caress. Maybe her beauty is something that can't be replicated from memory alone. Maybe the woman herself is required to inspire flawless recreation. Such is a luxury he'll never know again. He finally exhausted the days he was allocated with her. Not that the rules ever stopped River from seeing him when she shouldn't, always finding ways to sneak around with versions of him that were far too young to comprehend who and what she was. She always found ways to steal just a bit more time.

What sort of thieving, Time Lord husband would he be if he didn't do the same?

As much as he would love to meet in the flesh again, he can't bring himself to resort to a memory wipe. She's had enough of that in her life. And without one, she's far too clever to risk interacting with directly, even something as ambiguous as a phone conversation or a note would give him away. He doesn't trust himself not to let his true identity slip. River’s always had that way about her. He can never keep his complete and total captivation suppressed for long. He settles for just watching, telling himself that it's not the start of a masochistic obsession, that observing her from afar won't become his next self-destructive addiction. 

Stormcage is where he makes his start, seeking out the home she made under rainy skies and behind prison bars. It's easy enough to hack into the facilities security system, easier still to tune into the camera outside her cell. He thinks she'd like this, too, him breaking a whole host of rules just to steal a glimpse of her, to orbit high above this blue-grey planet just to watch over her like a quiet protector. As the Doctor stares down at her, he can't help but wonder if this is how a new moon must feel, silently observing, longing for the howl of the wolf. 

He hears nothing from way up here in the heavens, but he can see evidence of the riotous weather in the lightning that flickers across the dimly lit room. River always loved a good storm, wind and water raging against the steady earth, clouds sparking violently, illuminating the darkness. She always liked the way things felt after the purge of thunder and lightning and rain, the air thinner, the colors brighter, a world freshly cleansed. 

It's hard to see her clearly through the undeserving medium of a lens. The florescent lights of her cell don't hold a candle to the Darillium morning, but he'd be a damn fool not to attempt drawing her anyway. With her wild, matted hair and soot stained cheeks, she's a picture too stunning to go undocumented. 

She's curled in on herself in the small cot, her body shaking as she wipes at her eyes. Lightning flashes across her profile, silhouettes and shadows playing across her features. At first glance, his stomach drops, thinking she might be crying. But when he zooms in, he sees she’s not distraught at all. She's laughing, her smile wide and vibrant and infectious. Her diary is open before her, a pen laced between the fingers of her right hand and another tucked behind her ear. 

She doodles and hums as the weather outside lashes at the window of her cell, her peaceful demeanor at odds with the sharp, erratic nature of the storm. She's writing in that beloved blue book, recounting every detail of some adventure while it still burns at the forefront of her mind. He wonders where she’s been and what new and wonderful things she accomplished there. He wonders if he was with her, which face was lucky enough to laugh and run with her. Whatever she’d done, the soot on her cheeks and ash in her hair tells him she must be fresh from the fight.

The observation makes a sliver of hate for his younger self rise like bile in his throat. He was always doing that, always so quick to drop her back here and scamper on his way, always running off like he had all the time in the world. He never kept her as long as he should've, and for that, he'll never forgive himself.

But River, as selfless as she is, doesn't hold the same contempt for his lanky former self. Her eyes sparkle, vibrant as the lightning outside her cell and as warm as the distant stars scattered throughout deep space. In so many ways, that's what she became, what she's always reminded him of: starlight, burning, bright, and ever present. 

He puts his pencil to paper, recording her in secret, commemorating the way she bites at her lip when she smiles to herself and the one particularly unruly curl that never fails to fall in her eyes. They stay like this, she writing about him while he draws her, immortalizing one another in pictures and words, for their eyes only. It takes him hours or minutes or eons, he isn't really sure. But he stays in front of the scanner screen long after the drawing is complete. He watches her read her books and paint her nails. He watches her fluff her hair and try on half a dozen pairs of heels before finally deciding on his favorites. He watches, smiling, as she applies lipstick and seduces an unsuspecting guard. He watches, hearts stuttering, as she blows the camera a kiss and disappears in a thin cloud of smoke. 

 

 ** _Sunset_**  

He's far more shameless in his next pursuit, seeking out ancient cities lost to time, swallowed by mud slides or quick sand, ravished by dust or years, engulfed by tidal waves or jungle vines. It's a bit of an archaeological greatest hits tour, scouring the cosmos for every pudding brain civilization foolish enough to build their empire on fault lines or under the shade of active volcanoes. He travels to forgotten ruins, hiding behind statues and in tree canopies, searching for a glimpse of the curly headed woman who loved to uncover their hidden treasures. 

When the Doctor eventually tracks her down, he's not at all surprised to find she's on a planet of boring nothingness, just sand and sun and sky as far as the eye can see. It's desolate, save for the camp set up by her excavation crew and a single stone tower jutting out of the ivory terrain. The lone building must be the last remaining evidence of whatever it is they're searching for and it's where he makes his hideaway. The highest room is cramped and dusty, but he makes do. It's shelter enough to hide him from sight and provide relief from the blazing sun, the small crack more than enough to provide a window from which to watch her.

She's young, impossibly so, and not at all the woman he set out to find. Not that he minds, student or professor, he admires her all the same. It’s good to watch River like this, stubborn, head strong, and out to prove herself. Currently, she's having a row with whom he can only assume is her supervisor. The Doctor can't help but smile at the cocky way she arches her brow and rests her hands on her hips, feet planted firmly on the ground, never backing down. The man gesticulates to a map in his hand and then to a spot a few kilometers to the left, where the rest of the team is already diligently setting to work. River simply shakes her head, defiantly sticking to her guns as she points to the horizon and then a different spot not far from the tower the Doctor is using as sanctuary. 

The Doctor doesn't need to hear her voice to know the tone she's using, explaining her theory like a parent convincing a child to eat their veggies. She used to use the same method on him, the patience in her voice giving way to stern resolve and eventual annoyance if he simply refused to listen to reason. This other fellow must be just as stubborn because the two continue with their squabbling for a few long minutes before the man throws his hands into the air, no doubt scolding her about losing marks as he stalks back to the rest of the group.

Arms folded across her chest, River watches him go, a smug little smirk tugging her cheeks. Gathering her supplies, River sets to work in the place she'd gestured to before. The Doctor can’t help but wonder if she cheated, if she popped back a few hundred years to witness this once great city in its prime and get the edge on her classmates. She was insufferable like that, always needing to know everything. River hated wasting her time, and she made it a personal rule to only invest in sure things. 

Cheeky use of time travel or not, they must have been mucking about out here in the heat for days because he's never seen her skin so bronzed. The Doctor is mostly shaded, but sweat still pools on his brow and after hours of watching her dig, he can practically taste the salt built up on her sun baked skin. His own flesh tingles from too much exposure, ultra violet rays making his sensitive skin hot to the touch, the cold breeze chilling him to the bone.

River doesn’t seem to mind the heat, too focused on her task to notice the scorching sun. The others waste time by putting up a canopy, but River makes do as she is. There's nothing to shield her from the oppressive light apart from the clothes on her back and a large brimmed hat that unrepentantly screams ‘ _archaeologist’_. This face has never been one to focus on details, not unless he’s in peril, anyway. But looking at her now, baking in the hot sun and so very lost to her passion, he can’t help but soak in every facet. Her hair is pilled messily atop her head, exposing her shoulders and neck, and a thin shirt clings to her stomach and chest. Her legs are clothed in a pair of khaki shorts with far more pockets than are plausibly feasible, and to top it off, she’s sporting a pair of weathered combat boots that climb half way up her calves. The picture she makes is utterly ridiculous, and he scoffs at the fact that she ever had the nerve to make fun of his fashion choices.

Far beneath him and knees buried in the sand, River reaches for her utility belt that is honestly just a glorified bum bag and the Doctor lets out an exasperated sigh, feeling nothing short of besotted.

The sun is high in the sky when he starts on his task, watching as she sifts through countless buckets of dirt, smiling as he draws the way her hand grips her trowel and her hat covers her eyes. He traces her from his spot of safety, accounting for every grain of dirt that sticks to her knees and arms and smears across her cheeks and brow.

By the time he's nearly done, the sun has all but set, casting deep crimson hues across the horizon, fingers of violet piercing the skyline. The sand shimmers in the orange glow, a desert reduced to the likes of sticky caramel. Streams of the chrome creep in through the crack of his window, his thick brows squinting and eyes straining to see through the blinding light. When they finally adjust, he's just in time to witness River getting to her feet. She whistles through her fingers, summoning the others to her. She’s uncovered another chamber of the ruin, an emerald marking the peak of the sanctimonial tower. The team congratulates her on her discovery and River smiles joyously, bright and infectious. Even the supervisor makes to shake her hand. River accepts the gesture graciously, albeit, a wee bit smug.

Her glowing, triumphant expression puts the sunset to shame and he tries not to think about the last time he saw her bathed in the half light of a star on the horizon. A gust of air ripples across the sand, stirring her curls. And when the very same breeze flutters through his small window, he imagines that he can smell her perfume, that the wind carries with it the scent of her hair and the sweetness of her sweat slicked skin. 

His gaze falls down to his paper, fingers tracing over the fresh drawing, smoothing over the creases of her concentrated brow. Evidence of her determination is etched into the parchment, her relentless endeavor to make her mark on history immortalized forever. When he looks back up, his blood runs suddenly cold. River’s gaze has shifted upward, eyes fixed on his location and the Doctor freezes in terror. It takes a few hammering heart beats to realize it's not him she's staring at at all, but the ruin itself. He relaxes, enjoying the uninterrupted opportunity to stare into her face once more. For reasons he’ll never be able to explain, the magnificent creature before him is transfixed by this crumbling structure, her eyes happily drifting over its rough edges and time worn surface, completely unaware that the ancient relic inside is admiring her back.

 

 ** _Starlight_**  

Of all the things to be nostalgic for, the one he's most achingly aware of is the way she looked under the blanket of night. He misses seeing her bathed in starlight. He misses the glow of a full moon and the way it bounces off her hair and soaks into her skin. He misses the way her smile would streak across her face like the tail of a comet through the night sky. He misses her eyes, how the golds and greens sparkled, mapping out patterns more complex and lovely than any collection of constellations. 

Maybe that's how he ended up here on Calderon Beta, watching the night be over taken by the light of a billion, billion stars. They are even more beautiful this go around, not that he remembers much of them from the first time. How could he be expected to pay them a second glance when he had a newly wedded River by his side? What were billions of burning balls of gas in comparison to the spark of fresh adventure in her eyes?

A perception filter keeps him hidden, and as he stares down at his wife and his former self, he takes comfort in knowing at least his tired Time Lord brain can remember her with acute precision. River is as radiant as ever, throwing her head back and laughing as her hand strokes his bicep. His younger self blushes and babbles about constellation alignment and River looks positively tantalizing as she suppresses a grin, her bottom lip pulled tight between her teeth and eyes glittering with mischievous invitation.

Secreted away and veiled by a few dozen branches, he feels a bit like David Attenborough in a twisted, timey wimey documentary of his own life, starring River as a smirking jungle cat and him as her ever so willing prey. The younger man beneath him fidgets and flirts, pining for her attention like a gazelle just begging to be devoured. It's good to see them like this, a visual reminder of how they were. Their first night together the same as their last, bathed in the light of infinite stars.

He counts the seconds until his younger self kisses her, and when he does, River melts under his touch like warm butter. She wraps her hands around his neck and pulls him into her. The younger man below flounders briefly and the older version marvels at the difference years can make. He'd know exactly what to do with his hands now, just how to touch her and where to unashamedly let them stray. He’d know just what to growl in her ear and when, all without hesitation or flailing.

River, for all her usual grace and patience, seems to have none of it tonight, because when the kiss grows deeper and his younger self’s shy hands find their way into her hair, River leans back, pulling him on top of her. They hit the base of the wide branch with an undignified thud. The two break apart, laughing, before River fixes him with her fatal combination of loving smile and hungry eyes. He's never been able to resist that look and he watches with a suddenly dry throat as his floppy haired self leans in to kiss her again. Their hands wander, intent and curious. River’s slide up his chest, scratching the nape of his neck and stroking over his shoulders. The spindly hands of his former self fist in River’s curls and roam across her sternum and chest, skirting over her breasts and down the flat pane of her stomach.

Even centuries later, he can still remember how the fabric of her prison sweats felt beneath his palm, dingy and rough. He remembers her skin, warm and soft beneath his fingers. He remembers the goosebumps that sprouted in the wake of his touch and the shiver she couldn’t quite suppress. He watches as she arches into him, remembering the throaty, nearly silent whine she let out against his ear. It makes him shiver in his new old skin, affected by it just as much now as he was back then.

River hooks her leg around the waist of his bandy legged self, demanding him to be closer, and the sight of it makes him shift in his seat. His younger self’s mouth latches onto her throat and River’s eyes flutter shut. His tongue remembers the endearments he whispered into her hair like a long forgotten love song, the path his fingers forged down beneath her waist band as familiar as finding his way home. As he watches River’s head thump back against the wooden surface, he feels eleven hundred years old again.

Memories tingle in every synapse, nerves sparking like embers. Her long nailed fingers brushing his hair from his eyes. The swell of her breasts against his cheek as he presses kisses into her sternum. The way she eagerly lifts her hips to accommodate him as he slides her trousers and knickers down her shapely legs. The way her stomach twitches in anticipation as his lips ghost across her belly button. The softness of her flesh as he sinks his teeth into her hip bone and runs his tongue along her inner thigh. Long, slow touches that savor every last anxious hitch of her voice, taking his time, teasing her in all the right places before finally settling between her legs. He recalls looking up at her from between them, her pupils blown wide from hunger and need, the glossy sheen to her green eyes making her look vulnerable and strong all at once. 

He feels like a right peeping Tom, especially when River lets out a low moan, his trousers growing tighter entirely without his permission. The grip on his pencil tightens, too, fingers itching, because this is it. This is what he feels suddenly compelled to draw. He wants to capture her in this moment of bliss.

The view before had been enough to render him speechless, but now it's enough to make him forget language altogether. He watches as the mouth of his younger self devours her. River’s entire body hums in delight, her fingers still tangled in his mop of hair, hips canting and squirming under his ministrations in a desperate endeavor to sate her need. Her brow is pinched but her lips are parted, a moan caught in the back of her throat as she arches into him. Star light plays across her features, reflecting in her darkened eyes, lust and magic echoing in every gasp and moan.

He draws her face there, wavering on the brink of ecstasy. It would take him millennia to capture every wanton and beautiful micro expression that dances across her face, not that embarking on such an endeavor wouldn’t be a satisfying way to fill his eternity. But for now, there’s one look in particular he wants to preserve: his favorite. He wants to draw her the way they always lived, hurdling towards something beautiful. He wants to draw her drunk on the heady rush of passion, body caught somewhere between chaos and bliss. He knows that face better than he knows his own, seen and studied it from every angle. It's easy to recreate, especially with a writhing River only a few meters away. So when her hands fist into his floppy brown hair and her entire body goes taut, he’s helpless against the way his body flushes hot and cold all over.

River comes with a keening cry that cuts across the empty air like a gun shot, her knees shaking and chest heaving. She is pink cheeks and wild hair. She is glazed eyes and parted lips. She is sensational, and if he closes his eyes, he can still taste her, sharp and sweet on his tongue. He can still feel how her thighs wrapped around his head, pulling him in and taking what she wants. He can hear her gasps and shudders and the chocked little moan she makes right before she shatters. He curls his fingers, remembering the feel of her, wet and warm and clamping around him. 

When he opens his eyes again, his younger self is crawling back up her body, speckling her with kisses before River grabs him by the ears and crashes his mouth against hers. The new position blocks his view of her face, but he can still see her hands as they greedily claw at his former self’s ostentatious clothes. They strip each other layer by layer, and it isn’t long before her prison sweats and his white suit have been reduced to a rumpled pile on the floor. They slide together, her legs around his hips as he moves above her. Her nails dig into his skin, branding and marking him with red tally marks he knows will last for days. He burns from it even now, the feel of her as she scratched and clawed across his back and shoulders, the heat of passion still vivid in his mind.

He watches as she flips their positions, made just as dizzy as his younger self at the sight of her taking control. As she straddles him, the light dances across her bare skin in new ways. It sparkles off the bead of sweat that slides down her back. It catches on her finger nails as they flex and burrow into his chest. It shifts over her hair like a curtain as she rocks above him. It kisses her throat as she throws back her head like she’s praying to the heavens. Her pearly white teeth shimmer as her mouth parts like another scream is begging to break free.

He draws her as they make love, her breasts bouncing in the ivory glow of distant stars. He maps gold skin against velvet sky and nipples hardened by cool sea air. He memorizes her face under the light of a billion suns, thinking of nothing but pyramids and solar flares and bow ties and kisses as she comes apart. 

He watches them for a great deal after, sketching the way her hand rests on his chest as they stare up at the sky. He takes advantage of their stillness to perfect the way her hair takes shape on paper. He draws the places their bodies touch again and again, remembering how it felt for her head to pillow on his shoulder and her leg to wrap around his waist. He holds tight to the man that he was and the peace that he found when he was surrounded by his wife.

He lets out a sigh, silent but heavy, and beneath him, the smile curling River’s cheeks slips ever so slightly. Her brow crinkles and her eyes wander from the sky to settle on the branches of the tree. He holds as still as stone as River’s gaze travels over every branch but his, sensing a presence she can't see, distracted by the him that's not quite tangible, not quite there.

Eventually, the footprint of his wife shakes off the feeling and settles back into the embrace of his younger self. Invisible and silent, he feels a bit like a specter, haunting a dead woman and clinging to memories of the past. And as the Doctor lifts a hand, clutching his perception filter like cross, he can’t help but wonder which one of them is the ghost.

 

**_Midday_ **

If he’d been asked a few hundred years ago, he’d have said he’d never come back here, not ever, not once. And yet, when he steps over the TARDIS threshold and onto carpeted floors, he can’t deny the ache in his bones that feels an awful lot like home.

She’d call him sentimental for coming here, but as he makes his way through the house they used to share, it doesn’t feel like sentiment at all. It feels exhausting, his feet heavy and his bones weary as he trudges past the kitchen, where she taught him the secret to making her father’s famous oatmeal cookies, past the fire place, where they would roast pink marshmallows and read banned books, past the little closet where she kept all the gadgets and gizmos and guns she didn’t’ want him to know about. This house holds more memories than any four walls should, and as he edges ever closer to the bedroom, he can hear the absence of all the sounds that once resonated here. He hears the humming of the pipes when she’d shower, always taking her time until the image of her naked body bathed in hot water demanded he join her. He hears the echo of a whistling kettle and smells the way her tea would permeate the air. He hears slamming doors and rattling picture frames and creaking beds. He hears pens scribbling against worn parchment and the clink of ice as she swirled her brandy glass. All around him is evidence of the woman that dwelled here and the sound her absence is deafening.

The only noise that remains is the Towers. They sing, eternally, incessantly. Not that he minds their music. He doesn't think he could loathe them even if he wanted to. It would feel too much like hating _her_ , and such a thing would be blasphemy in its highest form. He loves the Towers when gusting winds make them rage and scream. He loves them when the gentle breeze makes them whisper and sigh. He loves them on windless days when they don't sing at all. 

And he loves River just the same, eternally and unconditionally, always and completely. He loved her when they fought and she threw books at his face. He loved her when she placed her head in his lap and silently asked him to play with her curls. He loves her still, even now, when all that's left of her is a memory. 

Finally, his tired feet reach their destination. The Doctor lingers by the door, unable to enter because nothing reminds him more that she is a relic of a bygone era like the sight of their bedroom. These four walls haven’t changed a bit. And why would they? It’s probably only been hours since they said their goodbyes. Her perfume still lingers in the air. Their bed is left unmade, duvet and sheets a tangled mess and pillows still crinkled from the imprint of her cheek. Light still shines in through the window, beams of reddish gold showcasing the life he left behind. He still remembers her, how she laid sprawled across the mattress, bare skin and wild hair. He’s never seen anything so beautiful as her in that moment.

His stack of pencil drawn portraits burn in his hand, the weight of graphite and parchment suddenly too heavy to bear. He thinks of lightning and stars and sunsets, of how he valiantly tried to capture the perfection that was her face as the first kiss of dawn streamed in through the curtains, bathing her in sunlight. But nothing compares to this, to here, to now. There is no light like morning on Darillium. He could search the whole universe over and never find a moment as perfect and bittersweet as this one.

He thinks of her face when she woke, a sleepy haze still lidding her eyes and the remnants of pleasant dreams curling her smile. He remembers how one tired sigh was all the confession of love that needed to be spoken. He remembers how she studied him and knew him and saw into his very soul.

He thinks of the places he sought her out in secret, of kisses blown to cameras, of awe and wonder as she beheld a crumbling tower, of how her gaze sought out trees instead of stars. He thinks of all the times she looked right through him never knowing he was there, and something inside him shatters into a million irreparable pieces.  

It was nice at first. Seeing her filled a void. But now, surrounded by all her possessions, all the things she left behind, all it does it make him feel empty. He wonders if this is how she felt as a data ghost, if haunting him was a pastime to help with the ache. If in the end the resounding absence of contact was all consuming, the continued lack of goodbye too much to bear. There is no closure to be found in watching a lover through a two way mirror, always observing and never touching, speaking but never being heard. It wasn't the way to end things after the harmony they found here on Darillium. He should have made do with their stolen time. The life they made here should have been enough. But he is a greedy, selfish old man, who couldn’t help but seek her out. He couldn’t resist just one more peak, and now their last goodbye has been tainted by footprints and drawings and ghosts.

When he finally gets the courage to step fully into the room, he gives his sketches a final, mournful glance before depositing the stack of papers in a pile on the dresser. It feels good to set them down, to let go. His now empty fingers flex and ache, so very tired of clinging to smoke. He decides then that he’ll leave them here, that he’ll bury them with the rest of her things. It’s rather fitting, a partial drawing for a partial forever, just one more beautiful thing left incomplete.

Delving deeper into the museum that was their life together, he finds one of his cuff links resting on the desk and a purple scarf that must have been River’s draped across the back of the chair. The Doctor scoops up the cloth, running it between his fingers and wondering if the fabric remembers the scent of her hair or the feel of her skin as it wrapped around the hollow of her throat. Lifting the item to his nose, he inhales deeply, detecting faint hints of dye, detergent, and honeysuckle shampoo. The familiarity of it makes a smile steal across his face as he deposits the article on the desk and pulls out the chair, the sound of wood scratching against wood made more abrasive by the room’s oppressive silence.

He takes a seat, mindlessly plundering through the drawers in search of nothing in particular. The miniature hideaways house a plethora of forgotten knick knacks, including a pair of earrings and spoons of various sizes and metals. He finds confetti and cards, make-up brushes and yo-yos. He even happens across a bag of marbles, and when he scoops up the mesh bag, the bottom falls out, sending a torrent of glass balls cascading to the floor and exploding in all directions. With a grumble, the Doctor leans down to pick them up, chasing one of the little nuisances to the far corner of the room. His eyes follow the path the irritant must have taken, his breath catching in his chest when his gaze lands on a different item entirely.

Propped up against the wall and collecting dust is one of his old guitars. He remembers the object well. It wasn’t often River stole the TARDIS and stayed away for hours on end, but on the nights that she did, he was forced to resort to some rather creative ways of keeping boredom at bay. This particularly unfortunate instrument was one of them, having become the object of experimentation as he counted down the minutes until his wife returned. He smiles down at the object now, remembering how he’d pouted and brooded, scoffed that if River could have a sonic _trowel_ , then he could have a sonic guitar, complete with different functions for every chord. Of course, in his juvenile state, he failed to realize that meant carrying his guitar around with him wherever he went, which in all honesty, made running a bit of an ordeal. So he abandoned it, tucked it behind the desk and forgot it existed.

He’s reaching for it before he even realizes what he’s doing, his hands stroking reverently along the neck and body, dust gathering on his fingertips. The instrument is as smooth as he remembers and when his thumb flicks across the string, she hums just as sweetly. The sound waves fill the room like a pebble greeting placid water and the sudden disturbance gives birth to a new idea.

There’s more than one way to say goodbye, more than kisses and words. There’s more than one way to capture her essence than the confines of pictures. If he can't capture her in portraits, then he'll play her a song.

The Doctor closes his eyes and breathes, letting the essence of her consume him. It’s easier now, to feel her in the air, to remember every detail with crisp clarity. He needed this, to be surrounded by all her things, by her scent, and the place they made their lives. He needed to sit by rumpled bed sheets to best remember how she looked when she laid there, to burn the memory into him forever, never to be forgotten.

Letting out a deep breath, he strums. His fingers pluck and slide across taut steel, filling the air with music that’s brand new and achingly familiar. The melody permeating the room is sad and sweet. It is raging storms and placid water. It is the harmony of the Towers and it is the raw chaotic power of vortex. It is the richness of her laugh and the broken way her voice hitches when she speaks words she wishes weren't true. It is silence where once there were two beating hearts, and oh, how it burns.

He doesn't have his pick so it isn’t long before his fingers sting from plucking at the strings. But the tunes they make when disturbed sound so gorgeous he can't help but continue in his task. It's a bit on the nose, if he's honest. The dull ache of doing something in spite of the hurt it causes, in spite of the way his skin grows thicker to protect itself from future pain. He knows that the sounds that delight his ears can only last a moment. He knows that eventually the music will fade forever and he’ll be left with just a memory, that his fingers will ache long after the reverberating strings have settled. But he carries on because, no matter how briefly it lasts, the rippling sound waves form a tune that makes his soul sing.

Eventually, his playing stills. But the chords continue to hum softly, their melody hanging in the air as he relaxes into the oncoming silence, listening as the last of the music fades away.

"I thought I'd find you here." The sound of his wife’s voice nearly makes him jump out of his skin, and the Doctor jerks around to find River stood by the entrance of the room, thumbing through the drawings he'd left on the dresser. "You always did love to brood."

A moment of stunned silences passes as he stares at her, his mind racing and impossibly blank. She’s lounging against the door frame the way she’s done a million times before, watching him, waiting for him. If it weren’t for the sun outside the window, he’d worry he got the date wrong, that he showed up too soon. But he couldn’t have. This is morning on Darillium, sunlight they were never meant to share.  

And yet, she’s here.

And she’s not even a ghost. He can tell by the size of her curls and the static crackling at the ends of her hair. She reeks of vortex energy and the shredded fabric of time, the smell of vaporized atoms clinging to her like perfume. Even the air has been disturbed, a wave of displaced neutrinos resonating out from the epicenter of her person.  

She cheated, that’s the only explanation. His minx of a wife used his ship or her vortex manipulator to stretch their twenty four years as far as she could. It hurts too much to hope that there might be more encounters waiting for him, that maybe she sprinkled herself along his timeline like confetti, ensuring that she’d be with him for years to come.

It hurts even more to wonder if time isn’t the only thing she cheated, that perhaps she cheated death as well.

He doesn’t let his thoughts dwell there for long. It’s far more likely that this is it, that she borrowed just a little bit of time from their twenty four years to pop ahead and comfort him. He wants to laugh and cry, crumble and rejoice that she would come _here_ , that she knows exactly how much of a sentimental idiot he is, that she always takes it upon herself to pick up the pieces of his broken hearts and take care of him when he’s lost all hope.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, the Doctor’s lips part, voice cracking over her name. “River, what ar-“

"What's all this?" she interrupts, silencing him before his clumsy tongue can even remembers how to speak. She brandishes the stack of drawings in his direction, a single brow arching as she finally lifts her eyes to meet his.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so he supposes it's rather fitting that his favorite goes unfinished and all his most memorable confessions are still locked behind his lips. But the sight of her is enough to renew him, to give him strength enough to offer a nonchalant shrug as he answers, "Hobby."

River’s sharp eyes flicker back to the paper, the barest hint of a smirk crawling up her cheeks. "Looks a little more like stalking, I’d say. Should I be worried? Get a restraining order, perhaps?"

His lips purse to hide a smirk, body falling effortlessly in sync with hers, rebuttal hot and waiting on his tongue. “Only if you _don’t_ want eccentric old men following you about time and space.”

“Keeping tabs on me, eh?”

“More like checking in.”

She hums, flipping through the pile of papers. He waits, anxiously, silently, watching as she occasionally tilts her head to the side to get a better angle or examine the details further. She’s about half way through the stack when something catches her eye, breath freezing in her throat. The Doctor itches to see which drawing made her give pause, which one could make her eyes flash with such familiarity and fondness. River’s eyes snap up to him, examining him from head to toe. Her gaze is penetrating, like she’s searching for something vital, some tell he isn’t aware he has, something in his posture or the wrinkles around his eyes that will give him away. He hasn’t felt such scrutiny since he wore a different face and he suppresses the urge to squirm in a way that Bow Tie could never quite manage.

“When are you, Doctor?” River finally speaks. Her voice is lighter than before and the question makes him wary.

He flounders for only a moment, lost for words before finally deciding to give the only answer he can. “Twenty four years.”

Her eyes flash with something, pity or surprise making her lips tremble before clamping shut. She averts her gaze, eyes fixed on the picture in her hand like the sight of him could make her confess all her darkest secrets.

She offers him nothing else, staring down at the picture for so long that the extended silence makes his fingers twitch, his anxious tongue helpless but to ask, “And you?”

She doesn’t look up at him immediately, but the way his voice cracks makes her smirk, finding confidence in how she never fails to make his hearts race. Rather than answer his question, River turns the stack of papers around, revealing the one that caught her attention. “This one’s not finished.”

It isn’t even a question, but he feels the need to answer her anyway, tongue snaking out to moisten his lips. “Ran out of time. My muse and I were on a very tight schedule. And I have a terrible habit of always running late.”

“I see,” River nods softly, letting a beat of silence overtake the room before she speaks again, eyes snapping up to meet his. “And now? Do you have time?”

It’s an odd thing to be asked by the woman who liked to compare him to mountains and monuments, to sunsets and ageless gods. She knew better than anyone that time was his in ample supply, that it was those around him always running short. Even her time ran out long ago. For all intents and purposes, she shouldn’t even be around to ask him this question now.

He can’t help the niggling thought that says perhaps her time wasn’t as limited as he thought. He wants her to assuage his worries, to listen as her voice dips low and she purrs out her favorite word. He wants what he thought was the epilogue to have been an interlude all along. More than anything he wants the brief lapse of linear time here on Darillium to have been a taste of what’s to come. He wants her presence here to be a sign that things aren’t over, that they're back to being a tangled, beautiful mess of cause and effect. 

But he doesn’t count himself that lucky. With River he’s always had to make time when there was so very little. He had to steal it and carve out every spare second he could find. If it were up to him, they’d have all the time in the world.

“For her?” A smile secrets its way onto the Doctor’s lips, his eyes flicking between the woman before him and the one etched into parchment. “Always.”

His answer must satisfy, because River gives a resolute sigh before placing the drawings back on the dresser. He watches from a distance as she sheds her coat and hangs it over the back of the door. There’s still a cavernous gap between them and he longs to close it, to spring forward and wrap her in his arms and ask her questions she won’t give him answers to just to hear her say that word, his favorite word, the word that promises more time.

But he refrains, scared of answers that could crush his hope and cripple the very legs he stands upon. Luckily, River’s fingers curl under the hem of her shirt and tug it over her head, sufficiently distracting him from melancholy thoughts of wishing for time he can’t possibly have.

The shirt crumples to the floor and the Doctor’s brows lift. “Why are you stripping? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Because you’re going to finish,” River announces, reaching behind her to unhook her bra and toss it aside. “You owe it to her. And to yourself. Make time. Finish what you started.”

The Doctor blinks at her bare chest, transfixed by the sight of her like a randy teenager. He’s hypnotized by her deft fingers as they unfasten her belt and slide it away, loop by loop. It isn’t until the leather slaps against the wood floors that he remembers himself, clearing his fuzzy thoughts with a shake of the head. He opens his mouth, prepared to protest or question or grovel at her feet. “River-“

"Doctor," she silences him, her tone demanding nothing but his cooperation as she levels him with a reproachful glare and slides her trousers down her thighs. The denim pools around her ankles and his body flushes with heat to discover she wasn’t wearing any knickers at all.

The curve of her legs is a sight for sore eyes, her skin golden and inviting. The Doctor finds himself unable to form words, his tongue reduced to snaking out to wet his lips, his throat suddenly dry. River kicks her clothes away like a bad habit, freeing her hair from its confines and letting it fall haphazardly around her shoulders. Completely naked, she levels him with another glare, this one far more mischievous, as she scoops up his half-finished drawing and pathetic excuse of a pencil.

River holds the items out to him expectantly, keeping a calculated amount of space between their bodies as she approaches. He must blink at her in an idiotic stupor for a fraction too long because eventually River rolls her eyes and pushes the items into his chest, still deliberately depriving him of the pleasure of her skin.

When his useless hands finally function properly enough to grasp the items, River backs away coyly, her vixen eyes never breaking from his as she slinks toward the bed. A smirk is etched into her cheeks as she positions herself accordingly, limbs falling into place like she knows how the finished product should look. The impossible scenario makes the back of his mind swim with something akin to hope and excitement. Then again, it may just be that his hammering hearts are confusing his brain for another area of his body entirely. He tingles from his head to his feet, the sight of her making another surge of heat ravage his body, trousers growing tighter.

River clears her throat and the Doctor realizes he’s been staring again. He jumps to attention, moving to the desk and swiveling the chair around to face her before taking a seat. He pats down his pockets, searching for something to use as an easel. Finding nothing, the Doctor turns back to the desk, eyes scanning desperately.

"Sweetie," River summons him softly, and when he spins back around he finds her dainty hand is outstretched, offering him the book he keeps on his bedside table. It's the same one he used when he first undertook the endeavor to immortalize her on paper, and a smile creeps up his cheeks as he leans forward, fingers curling around the leather binding. The cover is cool and rough and heavy in his palm. Their hands don't brush as he accepts it and the inanimate nature of the object makes him acutely aware of the loss of her soft, warm skin. 

River feels it, too, the static between them palpable in the air. If anything, the electric charge only intensifies as they pull apart, the Doctor sitting straight in his chair and River lounging back against the sheets. She's lying half on her side and half on her back, her painted toes pointed elegantly and her knees slightly bent, showcasing the underside of her toned thighs and the curve of her bum. His eyes crawl up her body, following the fullness of her hips to the flat pane of her stomach. The core of her is hidden from view but he remembers well the angles of her body, the subtle swell of her tummy and the protruding flare of her hip bones. He knows the taste of her skin and the heat of her body. He knows the vision that hides behind her tightly clenched thighs.

His eyes continue their journey upward, drinking in the hypnotic way her ribcage expands and contracts, her chest rising and falling. Her nipples are hardened despite the warm rays that stream in through the window, a shiver creeping across her skin because silk sheets and sun beams aren't enough to satisfy her needy flesh. Her breathes are controlled but her lips are parted in invitation. Her full red mouth looks like temptation and sin and salvation and prayer and when he finally tears his gaze away, he finds her eyeing him expectantly. Sharp and green and silent in their demand for him to get on with it. But it’s hardly his fault he’s distracted. How is he supposed to function when she's spread out before him like this? So delicious and distracting, so close and yet untouchable.

He wonders if the universe is doling out retribution for never touching her data ghost, punishing him for all the opportunities he let slip through his fingers, for all the times he was too shy or too afraid to run his hands through her hair and drag his tongue across her skin. His gaze drifts back over her naked form once more, and he thinks to himself that with penance like this, the universe could make a masochist of any man.

Grip tightening on the pencil, he obeys her silent commanded and sets to work. He finishes her hands first, the one resting by her pillow slender and elegant as her fingers curl over her palm. Her nails are long and neatly manicured and he longs for nothing more than for them to make ruins of his flesh, to feel the sting as they dig into his shoulders and drag across his back. He thinks of nothing else as he carefully reconstructs the creases of her palm and her lightly calloused fingertips. When the task is complete, he moves his attention to her sternum and chest. Light catches the swell of her breast, casting a shadow on the valley between them. His lips tingle to press kisses there, to taste her. He wants to sink his teeth in the soft mound of her breast and suck until a bruise blossoms on her flesh. He sculpts the shape of her pebbled nipple, wanting nothing more than to take it into his mouth, to bite and suckle and lick at the sensitive peak. He wants to nip at her just a little too hard just so he can hear her breath catch on a moan. He wants to suck just a little too long just to feel the way she arches into his touch, begging for more. 

She doesn’t speak, but the way her eyes watch him say all he needs to hear. She loves this, loves tormenting him this way. She loves the way he shifts in his seat and licks at his lips. She loves the way he devours her with his eyes like he could make her come through sheer force of will.

Her body shifts compulsively, stomach flexing like she wants that, too. She wants him eager to touch and kiss and lick. She wants him to wait because she wants him desperate. She’s a bloody temptress and she wants nothing more than to see him _want._

And looking at her now, naked skin and glittering eyes, curves and curls, blond hair and bronzed flesh, red lips and pink nipples. Oh, he wants.

"Grip that pencil any tighter and you'll break it, my love." River chuckles, entirely too pleased, her eyes as dark as her voice is low.

"Sadist," he grumbles to himself, forcing his fingers to relax. But River's grin only turns feral, and damn if the sight of it doesn't make his trouser noticeably tighter. 

“Voyeur,” she fires back. The gleam in her eyes tells him she knows exactly what she's doing to him. But the way his scrutiny makes her stomach flex reveals that she's just as guilty with desire as he is.  

It’s a good thing her face was the first part he completed all those years ago because the sly smirk she’s wearing now is a far cry from the serene expression he remembers. She had been peaceful and sleepy, face clouded with shadows that had nothing to do with the rising sun. That same sun burns through the curtains, darkening corners. But there are no shadows, not like last time. There is nothing to hide behind and as the sun climbs higher, midday light washes over them, burning away all the secrets yet to be spoken. For twenty four years he feared the glow of morning, feared what it meant, feared the darkness in him it might reveal, feared the sadness he'd find behind her eyes. He feared the unknown, as all creatures do. But here in its light, all he can see is hope. So that is what he draws, hope, River Song, alive and breathing, basking freely in the light of Darillium sun, a morning they were never promised.

It isn't until a drop of water splashes over the paper, smearing the graphite, that he realizes he's crying, a rogue tear born of joy and relief carving a warm path down his cheek. The Doctor wipes the wetness away, stealing another shameless glance at the woman before him. In days long past, he had watched her with a greedy kind of guilt, like a naughty child staying up late or sneaking extra sweets. But this, there is no guilt in this pleasure. 

He draws the curve of her waist and the bumps of her ribs. He charts the arch of her hip and the sensitive dip he always strokes just to watch her shiver. He maps her other arm and the way it delicately splays across her abdomen. He longs to run his lips over the sensitive skin of her wrist, to press kisses around her belly button and feel her fingers rake through his hair. His pencil follows the curves his mouth wishes to trace, the swell of her bum and backs of her shapely thighs, the bend of her knee and curve of her calf, all the way to the tips of her toes. When he's satisfied he's reimagined every dip and perfected every curve, he pauses, surveying his work. 

"Done?" River questions, and when he nods, she sits up. "Show me."

He turns the drawing over obediently and River scans the page without a hint of surprise, examining it with familiar ease. He shifts in his seat like a nervous school boy waiting for the head mistress to approve his work. When she’s satisfied, River turns her critical eyes on him, the scrutiny on her face softening into a wicked smirk. 

One crook of her finger finds him depositing the drawing on the desk, eyes locked on hers as he stands and makes his way to the bed.  Only River Song can command him like this and make him beg. Only she can make him feel so humble and yet so terribly loved and important. His eyes never stray from her, the only thing that matters, as he crosses the room. His knee sinks into the corner of the bed and the mattress dips under his weight as he crawls toward her naked form. Still fully clothed, his hands settle on either side of her head, one of his knees planting itself firmly between her thighs.

River is pinned beneath him but she is far from prisoner. The intensity of her gaze is a warning and he resists the urge to touch her, looming over her instead, begging for permission. She shifts her body, careful not to brush against him as she lifts her arm, a single nail scraping across his clothed abdomen. He shivers at the contact, a growl burning in the back of his throat.

"Why were you so insistent that I finish the drawing?” The Doctor manages, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because," River purrs, her tone soft as velvet and sweet as honey, the heat of her body beneath him putting his stomach in knots. "I knew if I let you touch me, we’d get distracted and you’d never finish.”

"And why was that important?"

“Because I’ve seen it before,” she answers calmly, still deliberately avoiding his skin as she sets to work undoing his buttons.

He watches her intently, eyes tracking every subtle twitch of her lips. “Been snooping through my things again, Professor Song?"

“Maybe I have." She chuckles, plucking at another button. "Or maybe I found it in a museum." Another button pops free and then another. "Or maybe," her gaze flashes up to meet his, something mysterious dancing the green of her eyes. "You keep it framed above the fireplace in our TARDIS bedroom."

He nearly blanches, stunned at the confirmation that they have more days awaiting them, more adventures, more _time_. He resists the urge to probe for exactly how much time they have left. Instead, he clears his throat, swallowing past the lump threatening to form there and adopting a playful tone as he stares down at her. "I hang you on the wall?”

"Like a damn shrine," River says with a huff, but the smile playing at her lips tells him she's secretly pleased. His shirt hangs undone and her fingers have begun their assault on his belt when she adds, "But I suppose a portrait on a wall is a site better than a book on a shelf."

She sighs the statement like it’s her best kept secret and his body shivers and burns as the implications of those words course through his veins. He freezes, the smile draining from his face, torn between elation and all-consuming guilt. What could those words possibly mean? Were they loaded and cryptic or was it simply coincidence?

Before he can speak again, her hands have wound behind his neck, tugging his mouth to hers. He takes it as permission to touch her, all thoughts flooding from his mind as his body collapses against hers, legs entwined, hips and chest aligned. It's a hungry kiss; the feel of her lips moving against his is bliss, heat and love and lust exploding behind his eyes. River moans beneath him and the Doctor groans, deepening the kiss, determined to pry answers from her lips one way or another. His tongue slips out to probe at her mouth, and River opens to him willingly, kissing him like she means to devour him whole.

His tongue tangles with hers as he presses her into the mattress. The intensity of the kiss makes their teeth click and his mouth burn with confessions he can’t speak.   _I love you. I miss you. I'm sorry._ His hands grip tighter, asking her for answer in the only way he can.

It’s a desperate embrace, but the way she arches into him tells him all he needs to know. _I_ _know. I'm here. Don't be afraid._

Her breasts press into the bare skin of his chest and her fingers fist in his hair. Her needy tongue invades his mouth, her quiet whimpers and squirming hips enough to make his head swim. He is drunk on her skin and her kisses and her confessions. But he refuses to ruin the moment with pressing questions. No matter the meaning behind her words, she is a gift, then and now and always, and he will treasure every second like it’s his last.

As if on cue, she pulls him ever deeper, bucking her hips into his leg until he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to tear his mouth from hers if he wanted to. A growl reverberates inside the Doctor’s chest as he gives her what she wants. None too gently, he grinds his thigh against her core. River tears her mouth from his, gasping out as her nails dig into his scalp, both a punishment and a plea for more. 

He takes to mouthing her at her neck, all but rutting against her as he continues to press against her core. She tastes like sweat and lust, static and time, a concoction of pheromones meant to drive him mad. Watching her had been torture. It gave him time to plot all the ways he wanted to touch her in excruciating detail. But it has nothing on the feel of her curves beneath his body. His hands are free to roam now, to squeeze and pinch and stroke anywhere he desires. They shake with possibility, torn with where to explore first. He wants it all. He wants to tangle in her hair and flick at her hardened nipples and grip her so tightly that he leaves fingerprints on her hips as he pushes them down into the mattress. He wants his hands everywhere, all at once.

“God, darling, yes. Everywhere, _please_.” River pants into his ear and the Doctor swallows against a dry throat, voice made hoarse by his mindless confessions.

He obeys her, continuing to mutter into her neck and nip at her ear as his hands traverse her body. They dance across her skin, weighing the fullness of her breasts. He kneads and he squeezes, her pebbled nipple pressing into his palm. He flicks and twists at the sensitive peak until River sinks her teeth into his shoulder in warning. He releases her, his greedy hands mapping every curve he was made to draw, fingers tracing along all the places he’s been longing to touch.

She writhes and moans and clutches at him, but he is the needy one. She is calm and collected while he is desperate, his nips too sharp, his grip too tight, lashing out against her flesh but so _so_ desperate to please. She rakes her nails over his chest, catching on his nipples and he can't help but hiss into her neck, delighting in how she punishes him in the most delicious ways.

His embrace is bruising, but River doesn’t seem to mind. She arches into it like dry brush eager to catch fire. He leaves teeth marks on her soft flesh, demanding not just the pleasure of this moment but days and time and adventures, things he isn’t sure she can give. He is desperate as he grinds down into her, still fully clothed while she is naked beneath him. He strains against his zipper and her wetness has stained the front of his trousers, where he grinds his thigh against her. But he doesn’t care. All he can think about is the feel of her.

His hands stray to her core, craving to feel the evidence of her desire on his fingers. He slides against her, groaning to find that just the promise of his presence has her ready for him, aching from the intensity of his stare as he drew her and the determination in which his fingers clutched a pencil. Those same digits are just as eager in their endeavor to touch her, to please her. He strokes her determinedly, not even bothering to tease, and River lets out the throatiest, most wanton noise these ears have ever heard. His fingers delve inside her with no preamble at all and she moans in pleasant surprise. The core of her welcomes him, silky and warm and greedy for the way his fingers thrust and curl inside her. His thumb circles her clit, hard and relentless. River expresses her approval, cursing in tongues even his ancient brain can’t decipher. But the sound of her begging tone and keening whines is enough to render him useless but to give her what she wants.

The Doctor shamelessly fulfills his own fantasies, sinking his teeth into River’s collar bone while his fingers work her ruthlessly. When he bites down harder than she expects, River gasps and shakes in his arms. He pumps his fingers and nips at her nipples and tugs her hair until she is a quivering wreck of a woman, helpless but to gasp and moan under his ministrations. Endearments and praise fly from her mouth like curses and he revels in the way she loses all ability to speak when she teeters on the brink of release, when this strong impossible woman is entirely at his mercy.

When she breaks, her whole body trembles, knees shaking and chest heaving. Even the way she screams wobbles at the edges like the pleasure is just too much to bear, like she fears she’ll drown in the euphoric waves crashing over her body. When her eyes flutter open they are clouded with need, pupils blown wide and irises so dark with lust the green is practically midnight blue.

He doesn’t give her time to come down. He can’t. His body won’t allow it, his tongue so eager to taste her that he finds himself kissing down her body before she’s even stopped fluttering around his fingers. It’s only when he withdraws them that River bolts up, suddenly acutely aware of the absence of his body against hers. She finds him kneeling between her thighs, something predatory flashing in her eyes as she watches him take the digits into his mouth and suck her juices from his fingers.

River leans back, watching on with enrapt fascination as the Doctor takes the opportunity to shed the rest of his shirt and pop open the button of his trousers. It brings a small sense of relief but the way River’s hungry stare lingers over his crotch is enough to make him twitch behind his cloth prison.  She licks at her lips like she knows and the Doctor seizes his vengeance by dipping his head between her thighs and running his tongue along her folds.

The taste of her bursts across his tongue and he can't help the groan that rips its way out of his throat. She's exactly how he remembers, and he explores her in all the ways he knows she loves, tongue teasing at her entrance and around that sensitive bundle of nerves. He flicks and twists and sucks and scrapes his teeth across her until her hands bury in his hair, tugging him to where she needs him most.

It must burn, her over sensitive core stimulated so soon after release. Every stroke of his tongue must jolt through her body like an electric volt. And yet his shameless wife's hips lift off the bed, thrusting into his face, desperate for her second release. His tongue devours her eagerly and thoroughly, the sound of her moans bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. The Towers are a constant steady hum in the background as her keening noises grow ever louder and sharper, ragged moans hinging on a scream and nature’s peaceful hymns making music like no other. The symphony crescendos as River flies apart again, panting and choking out her release.

When he lifts his head, the Doctor is sporting a unrepentant grin and River somehow finds the strength to sit up, snogging him senseless. The kiss is fierce, lips battling and teeth clashing. River invades his mouth, letting out a filthy moan at the taste of herself on his tongue. The sensation is enough to fuel her into taking control, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him back onto the bed. She strips him of his trousers like the sight of them offends her, throwing them across the room before sinking down between his legs and repaying him the same courtesy he showed her.

Greedily, she takes him all in, swallowing him down without any warning whatsoever. The sudden bliss of her mouth makes his hands helpless but to clench at the sheets. River holds completely still, humming around him and hollowing her cheeks. The torturous heat of her is too much and not enough and the Doctor finds himself swearing in his Gallifreyan tongue until the vibrations in the back of River’s throat are born of a wicked chuckle. She releases him with a sinful pop and he bites back a whimper. Her lips are reddened and slightly swollen and every muscle in his body contracts at once, his cock twitching and eager before her.

She teases him further by letting her hand take over, lazily pumping up and down his shaft. His hips thrust up into her of their own needy accord, but River shows no mercy. She swirls her thumb over the head of his cock in a way that would bring him to his knees if he wasn’t already flat on his back. Every move she makes, every stroke of her hand is done with calculated precision, determined to kill him like the assassin that she is. Often times he forgets how dangerous she is, but she likes to take moments like this to remind him, to catalogue every weakness and showcase just how easily she can control him, blurring the line between her victim and her lover.

She pumps him once, twice, three times before stilling around him. The Doctor lifts his hips, thrusting into her hand, body begging for anything she’ll give him.

“Aren’t we an eager boy?” River purrs with a smirk and he growls by way of answer, hands fisting tighter in the sheets. His teeth clamp down hard on his tongue, determined to keep from admitting just how wanton he is. And god does he want her, his bespoke miracle, more than he thought possible.

The sound of her chuckling tells him his traitorous tongue has been spilling his secrets again. But when she takes pity on him by running her tongue along his length, the Doctor can't find will to feel anything but gratitude. River’s lips seal around the head of his erection, her tongue flicking at the tip, gathering the moisture pooling there. A hungry groan rumbles up from the back of her throat, expressing her pleasure at the taste of him. The sound makes him impossibly harder, mind at war with his body as he tries to control his jerking hips. 

River's fingernails dig into his thighs, but it isn't a warning to be still; it is a dare to take what he wants. He thrusts up into her mouth again and River relaxes her throat to take him in. She is relentless, working her mouth over him like a succubus trying to suck the soul of her victim out through the head of his cock. She almost succeeds, his body flushing hot and cold all over, stomach clenching, and balls tightening.

"River," he gasps in warning, desperate hands flying up to fist in her hair, unsure if they're pulling her away or pushing her further down. "River, I'm going to- you have to-"

She decides for him, pulling away to sink her teeth into the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. The Doctor jolts at the contrast of pleasure and pain. But when his eyes open to glare at her, she's already climbing up his body, hips hovering above his own. His head is still spinning when River sinks down on him. She throws her head back and moans as she adjusts to the feel of him. The Doctor’s hands fall to her hips, tethering himself to reality.

When she finally lifts herself over him, he fights the urge to follow her, letting her set her own pace as she sinks back down on him. She moves above him beautifully, head thrown back and hair draped over her shoulders. Her elegant neck is exposed and her lips are slightly parted. He watches as she swallows back another filthy cry of pleasure, his eyes traveling across her flexing throat and roaming over her heaving chest. Her own hands cup her breasts while his leave a bruising grip on her hips, letting her take what she wants and needs from him. 

Their union is a frantic one, both eager to possess the other, and it isn't long before he matches her rhythm, meeting her thrust for thrust. She’s giving him everything. And yet he finds himself begging, the word please tumbling off his lips like mantra, pleading even though he’s not really sure what he’s asking for. For his own release, for hers, for an answer to the question niggling at the back of his mind since he turned around and saw her standing in the doorway.

"River," he whimpers her name and she looks down at him like she is some beautiful and terrible goddess he has summoned. 

She grins like an imp and questions him like a sphinx, rolling her hips in a manner that makes him rub against her core in new and delicious ways. "Yes, sweetie?"

The midday sun streams in through the window, painting her in yellows and golds and his brain races to tell her how perfect she looks, how she's still his diamond, still just as rare and beautiful and indestructible as ever. He wants to tell her how grateful he is to have found her here, to see her bathed in daylight when so much of their life together was spent in darkness. There's so much he wants to ask, when she is and why she's here and if she's just as much of a sentimental idiot as he is. But his tongue is clumsy and the sight of her makes him incapable of complex speech.

 "Please," he confesses again, the only word his mouth seems able to form, the way it rolls off his tongue so desperate and filthy and sweet that the Doctor feels River's body tighten around him.

“ _Yes_ ,” she whimpers back. He can’t be sure what she’s agreeing to, his desires, his thoughts, or simply the union of their bodies. But he loves the sound of it on her lips, loves how breathless those three letters never fail to make her.

Driven by the need to hear it again and again and again, one of his hands releases its iron grip on her hip, slipping between her thighs. River doesn’t disappoint, crying out again and rocking harder against his hand as her eyes flutter shut. She comes with a strangled shout, walls clamping so hard that he finds himself being pulled along, chasing her into bliss.

When he comes back down to earth, River is collapsed on top of him, his arms absent mindedly stroking her sides. They are both still breathless and panting, the blackness around his vision slowly beginning to clear. The weight of River’s body on his chest and the heat of her breath against his neck the reel that pulls him back to reality. He's still buried inside of her when he twists to face her, his gentle fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. "River," the Doctor swallows. He hates to ask but he needs to know. "When are you?"

Still wrapped up in post coital bliss, a secret smile curls her cheeks. It's softer, sweeter than she'd been before and she ducks her head to hide it, pressing a kiss to his jaw as she whispers, "Spoilers."

Hearts in his throat, he slides his knuckles beneath her chin, encouraging her to face him. The moment she turns her gaze on him something inside of the Doctor unravels and constricts all at once. The vulnerable flicker in her eyes tells her age and he is nearly undone by the sight of her, every fantasy and daydream and silent prayer come to life before his very eyes. He doesn’t know how or why, but he knows when. This is a River who’s been to the Library, who’s been a ghost, dead and back again, who kissed him in his tomb and all but told him he’d see her again. This is River Song alive, her days no longer on a deadline.

"But how?" the Doctor breathes, his grip on her hips tightening.

River merely smiles, lovingly nuzzling her nose against his. "A thing happened."

The Doctor is left speechless, his giddy expression matching her own as he buries his hand in her curls and pulls her in for a tender kiss. He can’t help but smile against her mouth, bewildered and entranced by the miracle before him. _A thing happened,_ the Doctor chuckles to himself.

He bets it probably did.  


End file.
